Heart and Soul
by orianna-2000
Summary: Raoul reflects on everything Christine gave him... and the one thing she did not. A short resolution of events.


_This is a non-profit work of fan-fiction based upon _The Phantom of the Opera_. All related characters, places, and events, belong to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber, and are used without permission. This story, and all original content, belongs to the author, © 2005._

**_Heart and Soul_  
By Orianna-2000**

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_For once, a story centered on Raoul. It is considerably kinder to him than my other pieces. Inspired by events in Andrew Lloyd Webber's operatic masterpiece._

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"_Wildly my mind beats against you, but my soul obeys"_

Christine gave me her heart. Yes, and her body. She allowed me the privilege of being her mate, her wedded husband. She belonged to me in every way that ought to count, for a married couple. And yet, one thing alone she kept from me. One thing which belonged to someone else, one thing I could never even begin to touch.

_Her soul._

I knew I could never hope to help her forget completely the events which transpired shortly before our wedding. She would not easily bury her memories of the man who taught her to sing so gloriously, who inspired such a fire in her voice. In the beginning I'd hoped to lessen the impact he'd had on her life, to ease her memories into distant ones, perhaps something she would think of on occasion, and then quickly relegate back to the vaults of her mind.

How wrong I was, indeed.

It began on our honeymoon, a scant week after we'd said our vows and given ourselves to each other till death do us part. We took an afternoon carriage ride through London, on one of the few days of decent weather during our visit there. She caught sight of a little shop, one which sold glass trinkets and jewelry boxes. With a gasp, she forced me to halt the carriage, and I quickly leapt down and followed her into the quaint store. I found her kneeling before a case filled with music boxes, scanning the shelves with her eyes wide and anxious. After a moment, she stood and shook her head without saying a word, and we returned to our exploration of the city.

Similar actions took place in each part of Europe we visited. Any time we passed by a store which sold curios, Christine insisted we stop. Each time, she'd look so intently at the display, and I could see the hope sparkling in her blue eyes. Each time, those lovely eyes dimmed a little when she didn't find what she sought. Once, in Rome, she reached tentatively for a small music box with a carved monkey dancing atop the lid, but shook her head with disappointment after a moment.

Finally I dared to ask exactly what she sought, and she described the most curious music box. She hummed the tune it made, a familiar dance melody, and painted a picture with her words so clearly, that I believed I could actually see the object myself. As to why she so desperately wanted it, she wouldn't answer, but I knew... somehow I knew.

When I suggested having a craftsman reproduce the unique design, she shook her head dismally. "It wouldn't be the same," she said, and made an effort to smile for me. After that, she stopped actively searching for the music box, but I knew that she browsed antique shops on occasion for that very purpose. As the years passed, she spoke of it every once in a while with a wistful tone, particularly after the New Year's ball, when musicians played that song loudly throughout the city.

I would find her at times, plucking a peculiar melody on the piano, and I always passed by without distracting her. For I knew that if she saw me watching, she'd stop in an instant and her pretty cheeks would turn pink with embarrassment.

Her Angel of Music never ceased haunting her thoughts, even as we celebrated the birth of our children, and in time, our grandchildren.

She never spoke a word of regret, nor an ill word against him. The few times she actually brought the subject of the Phantom up, it was to comment on a brief happy moment they'd shared, so long ago. I understood, and eventually I came to accept the invisible presence which lingered in our home. It did not come between my wife and I, so I had no right to object.

When she grew ill, my heart trembled, for I knew... once she died, I could lay no claim to her. My wife gave me many happy years, a full and blessed life for which I am eternally thankful, but I always knew that her soul belonged to _him_.

Even though the family tried to console me with the thought of seeing her again, I knew it would not be so. I did not know if _he_ would be allowed in Heaven, and surely my beloved Christine did not belong in Hell, but whatever joined them together was surely stronger than such religious concepts. They would not be separated by such trivial boundaries as the Church invented.

My health declined rapidly after Christine passed away, for now I truly felt alone in the world. Nothing could ease my broken heart... and then, I saw an advertisement in the newspaper: an auction to be held at the old Opera House, to raise funds for its refurbishment. The place desperately needed repairs, for it had been left in a deplorable state after the Great War. I would be quite willing to donate to a cause with such ties to our past, and absently planned to have my son write a check to be mailed to the new owners. But then a catalog of items to be sold caught my attention.

It listed many old props, and posters for productions no longer remembered, along with the damaged chandelier from that horrifying night so long ago. These might be interesting to look at, worth an afternoon spent reminiscing. What stole my breath though, was the simple description of an antique musical box...

I'm afraid my nurse thought me quite mad when I insisted on being driven to the Opera House immediately. The newspaper was several days out of date, and the auction had already begun, that very morning. I could barely breathe on the drive into the city, fearful that someone else had already bought the priceless object, if indeed it was as I suspected. Perhaps it was not, perhaps I'd gotten myself into a frenzy over nothing. It took every ounce of my will to stay calm as the nurse and driver helped me into my wheelchair. Impatient, I silently urged the poor woman to push faster. I had to know, I had to see!

And there it was, sitting on a table, half hidden by a stack of dusty books. Exactly as Christine had described! I let out a reverent breath, and settled back in my chair to await the bidding.

As I listened to the other items being auctioned off, I gazed about the old theater. The state of disrepair sorrowed me, for I could easily remember how it was, so many years ago. The velvet curtains, burnished gold statuary, so luxuriant and decadent, now rotted and crumbling. My eyes focused on the stage where I'd first seen Christine perform, a lifetime ago, and then I found my gaze drawn up to one side. Box Five... looking as shamefully decrepit as the rest of the place. Did that bother _him_, I wondered, and found myself glancing to the dark corners and dusty shadows, looking for any hint of movement. Surely the Opera Ghost would not resist visiting his old haunting grounds, one last time! Or had he too turned to dust, along with everything else connected with this Opera House?

Shortly afterward, I had won the auction and the music box was placed in my lap. I took it with trembling hands. So exactly as I'd pictured it... the lead monkey sitting atop, wearing colorful Persian robes and a little hat. Tiny cymbals in its furred hands, which chimed melodically when I touched them together. Inside, a lining of velvet, just as she'd described to me, so many times. The mechanism still worked, and the familiar tune played with precision. Tears formed in my eyes, and I quickly shut the lid. So many memories!

As we drove, later, toward the cemetery where my beloved lay in eternal rest, I let myself get lost in the memories.I could see Christine's bright blue eyes, smiling at me as she dragged me into yet another shop, on her neverending quest. Her hair, dancing in the breeze as we walked along the beach where we first met. Her voice, her sweet, angelic voice, singing to me on our anniversary. She'd given me so many happy memories. A lifetime of joy! I could never thank her enough for that.

To show that I understood the precious gift she'd given me, that I didn't resent that which she withheld, I gave the music box to Christine. Perhaps she would know, and perhaps not, but the gesture eased my grief considerably. I only wished I could have found the music box for her before she'd passed away, so that I could see the look on her face as she traced the features of the monkey and listened to the gentle tune one last time.

I placed the ornate gift on the edge of my wife's tombstone with love. There, beside it, I noticed another gift left for Christine, by the other man who loved her. She'd told me once, how she found a red rose, stripped of thorns, and bound with a black ribbon, each night after a performance... not long before her Angel would come for her.

I looked at the deep red blossom laying on the marble slab, and saw a glint of sunlight reflect off the engagement ring tied to the stem with a black ribbon. They would be together soon... and I realized that the thought no longer bothered me.

She'd given me her heart in life, and now she would be in death with the one who possessed her soul. Perhaps not a fair trade, but one I accepted, for I loved her.

_(fin)_


End file.
